word play
by MarginalMary
Summary: She saw the fall coming — their inexorable end — standing there stupidly on the edge of the blade hanging over her head.
1. prologue

**Change your settings to Dark view (white font on a black background).**

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IDN Bleach.

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_She saw the fall coming,_

_Their inexorable end,_

_Stupidly standing there_

_On the edge of the blade_

_Hanging over her head._

On the corner of a seedy street in a bloodstained city, there is a fucked up building, foundation cracked and walls barely there. And in this shitty excuse for a building gathers a select group of nightstalkers.

They gather by moonlight, melting in and out of shadow. The great unseen and unforgiven.

They're a mixed bag bunch, each one less like the next. And they stand or sit or lounge without a care for their peers because who gives a fuck what other people think?

Not any of them.

"Who gives a damn one way or the other?" asks the tallest male among them, his eyes lit with fever, grin wide with bloodlust. The tinkle of tiny bells threaded in his hair is at odds with the menacing timbre of his voice. "I'm sick of whacking weak nobodies. So whichever gives me a challenge, goddamit!"

A one-armed woman wearing next to nothing snaps, "Yes, we all know your dick is huge. Too bad your brain can't compete. So, shut the fuck up." Promptly, she abandons her tirade, returning to the issue at hand. "We can kill her ourselves before she talks or we can fight to bring her back. I care nothing for the girl, and sneaking in an assassin would be easier. So, why don't we just kill her?" She throws her lit cigarette into the center of their loose circle. She has nothing more to add. For the moment.

Lifting a hand, flicking the brim of his beret above his dark eyes, the toothy man shakes his blond head. Voice light, thoughts dark, his offers his opinion. "This isn't our call. The 13 has its own way of dealing. Why do I have to be here?"

Silence but for the sound of several feet shuffling. That particular inquiry is stained with bad blood, dividing the individuals called here to make a collective decision.

Chocolate skin and limber body, another woman leaps down from the eaves of the crumbling second floor. Landing in a crouch, she rises slowly, drawing every eye. "The 13 votes to retrieve her, but their motivation is clouded," she says calmly, "The Invalid's soft on the 13. Preserving a single life… Not a variable here."

No one speaks, waiting for her to show her hand.

Though the discussion includes every person in the circle, she directs her words to a man sitting in the corner. "With that in mind, I still believe we must do something. Her capture is a blow, but the information she could give them—she's a risk I won't take." A note of defiance colors her speech leaving no doubt she will act with or without the consent of those gathered here.

"She will not talk," interjects an impassive man with long midnight locks, his tone offering nothing. "They will surely kill her either way. She knows this." Remote gray eyes dare them to argue as he finishes, "Sensitive information is not the issue. She broke the rules, thus we have no obligation to her. We risk too much by intervening."

"Pst," scoffs another man, scratching his chin, his back to the group as he imagines the stars beyond the smog, "What would your wife say?"

The impassive man's shoulders tense, his pride abused by the reproach. With impeccable self control, he does not react to the provocation. The death of his wife is the reason he stands in this circle of misfits. His thirst for revenge supersedes all other concerns. His sister endangered his cause. Her fate is justified.

Turning away from the drab sky, still scratching his whiskered chin, the reproachful man laughs bitterly, "You are not the only one here who has lost someone irreplaceable; I understand your _fear._ But you're a fucking idiot if you think losing someone else is preferable to breaking your precious rules. Those inane laws to which you cling will not resurrect Hood." The whiskered man smiles, sad and haunted, his hand extending out toward the 'fucking idiot' he understands better than anyone else here. "If you can't let go of the past—those rules you hide behind—It's fine. But my son plans to steal her back, so you can watch." His expression resolves in a wolfish grin, adding, "I'll make popcorn, and if you are a very good little pussy, I'll share."

Most of the others are not inclined to involve themselves in the verbal spar, their feelings on the matter ranging from utter indifference to sinister amusement. Only the lithe woman with dark skin seems the least bit perturbed.

However, it is the last man in the corner who moves swiftly, inserting himself between them, thereby preventing bloodshed. Still, it's a near thing. The perturbed woman instantly relaxes. She has no doubt he will sort the situation.

"Honestly," says the man-in-the-middle, vaguely conciliatory, "if I didn't know you two better, I would think you didn't like each other at all. But that's simply untrue. We _are _on the same side." From under his bucket hat, the conciliatory man's cobalt eyes flit from one face to the next, impressing upon them to seriousness of this matter. "Now, I say we vote and be done with it. Each of us has another place we would rather be." His gaze lingers on the dark skinned woman, silently communicating some ulterior motive. Clearing his throat, he speaks coyly, "Save or sacrifice, eh? I say save," his smile concealing his thoughts, the plans he has already set in motion.

Raising his cane to point at each in turn, the secretly smiling man calls the role, "Black Cat?"

Gold eyes guarded, the lithe woman with a chocolate complexion votes, "Save," surprising most of the others.

"Jester?" asks the man with the cane, smile becoming a smirk.

"Which gives me things to kill?" replies the bloodlusting tall man with a small brain and big dick. The tiny bells in his hair seem to chime with glee at the prospect.

Rolling his cobalt eyes under his bucket hat, irritated and entertained in equal measure, the pollster swivels his cane, skipping to the next person. "Firecracker?"

The one-armed woman breathes, "Sacrifice," staring blindly into the space before her, trapped in twisted memories. No one is surprised.

The cane shifts to the toothy man in his omnipresent beret leaning against the lip of a long forgotten bathtub. "Jazzman?"

The blond yawns, eyes closed, giving the impression of one unfettered. But behind the mask of disinterest, he weathers a tug-a-war between emotion and instinct.

Jazzman has been fucked over and fucked over again and, just for kicks and giggles, fucked over one more time. The Voids—more like his family than his crew—is the only thing that matters to him in this shitty world where nothing matters. They are the only people who are 'real.'

Hence, Jazzman is torn between sympathy for the 13 and the interest of his Voids. "What's this girl like?" he asks thoughtfully. Before anyone can answer, he changes his mind, firming his resolve, "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Save her."

One eye slipping open, Jazzman qualifies, "But don't expect us, Voids, to help. We have other shit to do. We'll make our move when the time is right." Smile wry and broken, he slides off the lip of the tub, ass falling to the damp floor and legs out straight, smacking his head against the cracked porcelain. "Dramatic entrance and all that."

Nodding, the man tallying the votes turns his cane on the next member of their group, biting the inside of his cheek in a formidable effort not to laugh.

"Doc?"

"Save, definitely, save," answers Doc confidently, scratching his chin again, "Can't let the mother of my future grandchildren die, you know?" He throws his impassive counterpart a wide grin, expanding, "That'll really make your day, eh? Yours and mine are going to be one big, happy family! She'll be a Kurosaki one day."

"Names!" hisses the Black Cat, hostile warning evident in her leer, "Stick to the goddamn program. No names. Not ever."

"Right," replies Doc sheepishly, "Forgot. I'm just excited about it."

"If you think I will let my sister marry your son," injects the impassive brother coolly, "your sense of reality has abandoned you. Over my dead body would I endorse such a regnant match."

Doc laughs good-naturedly, "According to you, she'll be dead, so the issue's moot. As for the rest—'your dead body'… I'm not opposed to the idea. Dead on the inside; dead on the outside. Not much of a stretch."

"Keep familial squabbles for after hours," complains the bucket hat man, his cane wiping between them, "We're at work right now. Bitch later." Focusing on the impassive brother, he asks, "What say you, _Blossom_? Still all for letting her die?"

Looking away fixedly, Blossom—who hates his code name—replies, "I vote sacrifice," with no inflection whatsoever.

"Well, that's it then," concludes the bucket hat wearing vote counter, his cane finally at rest, "Vote is four to two: the Butterfly is saved." With a flourish, he bows to his distinguished cohorts.

"Black Cat, remind me why you fuck this son of a bitch," remarks Firecracker, lighting up another cigarette. "Pst. The goddamn _King of Hearts_. I should have killed him when we were kids."

_So swiftly down, they fall. On her head and off the edge._

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This is a new project I'm playing with. AU.

It's dirt, grit, hate, gore, and sex. Hope you like it.

~Mare~


	2. misnomer

**DARK VEIW

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Music: "Damage" by Kosheen

IDN Bleach.

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_Forever indebted to you_

_for hanging yourself_

_from this silver chain _

_she wear around her neck_

_unaware it's a noose._

"Hood?"

He has said that 3 times.

The girl in the gray hoodie and holey overalls has no idea what's going on.

"Holy fuck," calls a repetitious man, his voice shocked, his features indistinct, "_Hood?_"

She's annoyed, tired of standing on _her _end—the deadend—of the alley waiting for this shouting son of a bitch to move on. He is standing at the opposite end of the alleyway, cloaked in shadow like some wannabe nightmare.

So, she's not intimidated, just cautious. The city is a dangerous place. Watching where you walk is just as important as watching who walks behind you.

Or in this case, in front of you.

The man steps forward in her direction—not an encouraging sign—emerging from the ubiquitous gloom, illuminated by a flickering streetlamp. The blinking effect is vaguely nauseating.

From the spotty image, she discerns long red hair tied up with a kerchief, grimy boots laced up high over shins, leathery gloves cut off at the fingers, and a tattered gentleman's overcoat.

The guy looks normal. Everyone looks ominous in this ominous city.

Still, she knows he's up to no good. It's the sunglasses he wears that tip her off, clue her in.

Who wears sunglasses at night? In the dark?

Only crazy fuckers.

Hence, this fucker blocking her path is crazy, which in and of itself isn't all that strange. This city drives people mad—it rains all the time.

Like it rains now. Not a torrential downpour. Just a mist that turns the black and white world gray.

The crazy-sunglasses-wearer walks toward her slowly, hands up—like one might approach a wounded animal. Afraid to scare her away, afraid she might freak out. Afraid she might shoot him in the head.

Shifty, feeling trapped, her purple eyes swivel from the deadend of the alley to the street corner behind him, calculating her chances of evasion. The odds are not in her favor.

Unsure which is the best method to dissuade him from coming any closer, she hesitates, "Um... I don't have anything you would want," hoping thievery is the only crime he's considering. Rape and murder would really fuck up her night.

She backs away slowly, each step backward matching his step forward.

The unbroken lines of derelict buildings on either side feels like a blocked tunnel, a rectangular cage, the blacked out-boarded up windows gazing down on her like apathetic gods.

"Hood," he says, calling out to her like "hood" is a name rather than a piece of clothing, "Awe, little Hood, where are you going? Don't you recognize me?"

In the half-light, she cannot see his face, but she imagines his cracked-out grin. She wonders idly if he's hallucinating, seeing through her, seeing someone else. "I'm not Hood," she replies coolly, hoping her controlled calm will puncture the delusion, "You're confused."

Only a few yards away, the squelch of his boots against the dank concrete is louder than it should be, screaming a warning in her head. "Please," she murmurs, hating the desperation in her voice, disgusted by her weakness, "Leave me alone. Please just let me walk away." Her heart feeds adrenaline to her limbs, and her pupils dilate. The mist and the flickering street lamp toy with her senses.

The crazy man with red hair laughs, a full bodied sound, strangely pleasant, not manically.

His laughter is not right; it's a lie—his laughter should reveal the madness within. But it does not.

So, angry that his evil is disguised, she crosses her arms, demanding, "I said leave me alone."

Pausing, the man cocks his head to the side, his hair doing funny things from that angle, watching her squirm. "Leave you alone? All by yourself? I can't do that, Hood," he tells her in the tone of one engaged in something tedious, explaining the obvious to someone pretending ignorance, "We've been looking for you for two years. You've been a bad girl, running off without calling home."

Her eyes narrow briefly, a momentary reprieve from fear, fight or flight overrun by confusion. "Wh-what?" she stutters.

Her hands clenched to fists, preparing not for battle but for truth, she widens her stance. She has been searching for a woman—the _girl_ who abandoned her 10 years ago. "_Who_ have you been looking for?"

The redhead stands before her, leaning down slightly to search her face, ignoring her question and asking his own, "Did you shrink, Hood? I thought you were taller."

To this, she scowls deeply, chagrined and scared, curious and confused. Her fists begin to tremble, and she wishes—desperately wishes—the tenement buildings on either side would disappear. Then, she would not feel so insignificant. Perhaps, if she could see the sky beyond the cloying smog, she could remember how to breathe.

If only it would stop fucking raining...

Unaware of the cataclysmic mind-fuck choking her, the man continues thoughtfully, "Or, maybe, _I've_ grown, eh, Hood? Maybe you were always a midget."

She is done.

And so, she turns, agile and quick—the natural grace of wild things—and she runs.

Tries to run.

He seizes her wrist—how he caught it before she took a single step, she will never know. His grip is tight and unsympathetic. It hurts.

"Knew you'd run," he grumbles, with an alien bitterness, "Wish you hadn't, though." He sighs, aggrieved, accusing her of someone else's habits, "You never could do anything the easy way."

Watching him pull a syringe from a loop on his belt, she decides the situation could be worse—the syringe is not so bad compared to the other weapons hanging there.

Her brain burns; time is running ahead of her thoughts. She needs to get a grip, give him a piece of her mind. But she can't find the right words; she cannot find any words.

The redheaded mother fucker smiles crookedly, explaining his choice of weapon, "Propofol. You know, I never get to use this. Never any need." Raising it for her to inspect, he adds, "Because you know what _they _say, Hood, 'Never leave 'em alive.'"

She winces, pulling away ineffectually, her captured hand numb by now. The harder she pulls; the more it hurts. Her skin crawls where his fingers squeeze. Dazed, she wonders if it's bruised, only just remembering that she's about to die anyway.

So, she stills, the fight draining away, sucked away like life has always sucked. So death might be better.

Waiting for the moment he pumps her full of drugs, she's already feeling high—dull and spacey, sensory overload.

"See ya soon, Hood," he says, "And don't worry. I don't think Blossom is going to kill you. The rest of them, though… Damn, girl, you sure know how to piss off the masses."

Another minute in this particular hell might unhinge her. Given the choice between dying sane and dying crazy, she'll be brave—choosing to die in her right-ish mind.

Resigned and shaky kneed, she interjects, "Shut the fuck up and do it already. If you're going to kill me, just kill me, goddamn it! You sound weak when you monologue."

"Fine, be that way, then," he mutters, turning her wrist over and injecting the sedative, "Night-night, Hood."

As her vision inverts reality, impending death suddenly funny, she courts unconsciousness, slurring and drooling, reminding the world that, "I'm no—t Hoooood. Rukia, I—mm Rukia."

_Hangman swinging from her chain, she gives you all the credit.

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Mare


	3. non sequitur

**DARK VIEW

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Music: "Lost In The Music" by Cosmic Gate.

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_Dancing on the line_

_between the living and the dead_

_she hums a song_

_her mind cannot remember_

_and her heart cannot forget_.

Intravenous mind-fuck.

The washed-out world is white, then gray, then black, then it explodes into a phantasm of color—true color—burning her closed eyes. Arms lazy or dead, she searches for another way to capture the colors, to taste them on her tongue. And the charred brain behind the phantasmagoria drifts, sifting through half remembered dreams and half forgotten memories like so many black and white photographs hidden under the floor boards of her house of cards.

In this house of cards, she wanders—cartwheels in the kitchen and slit wrists in the closet. Running down the hallway, peeking in some rooms and locking some away forever, she laughs and cries as walls wobble.

Drugged.

She catches snatches of conversations creeping into her wonderland—like peeking out of windows hung askew.

"_You're a fucking idiot!"_ _spits a woman, haloed in smoke, "You must be fucking blind." _

_That red haired man who brought her here scratches the back of his neck, feet shuffling. _

Time relents—years becoming seconds and visa versa. Only the sound of dripping water _counts_. The drops count life leaking away as they fall from the exposed pipes overhead.

"_Hood… Ha!" laughs a man, "She'd be what? Almost 10 years older than this girl."_

_The chime of bells follows him as he disappears._

The church bells of the old cathedral—the last god standing—toll, and she prays for salvation, relief in any form. Even death. Or, maybe, it's not tolling bells at all; just some new commercial jingle for laundry detergent which now comes in her choice of peppermint green or cinnamon red. No, that is the bubblegum stuck up under the desk in the office in the house of cards.

"_I demand to see her alone. Leave us," orders a steely voice._

_Pregnant silence, and then, a beautiful man genuflects before her chair, saying words she cannot understand. Still, he is the only one who speaks _to_ her. _

His eyes are gray but they turn blue when filled with unshod tears. To compensate, it storms inside her head, the rain drowning out the sound of his voice, drowning her in the bathtub in her house of cards.

_And when he walks away, a piece of him—a gray-blue scarf—remains._

Sometimes, she sleeps, or, perhaps, the tenuous link between her wonderland and reality simply snaps. So, she dances with cartoon bunnies on the coffee table in the living room of her house of cards.

Other times, she is absent in her own body, lost in her thoughts while her limbs stumble in the dark. And faces she does not know direct her movements—unwilling owners walking a lobotomized dog.

"_I can understand his mistake, I suppose. She looks just like her," remarks a rich voice, thoughtful and bemused, "Hood must have been keeping secrets, eh, Kisuke?"_

"_Indeed," concurs a man in a hat, "Though, we suspected she was. So, I'm not surprised."_

_Laughter, deep for a woman, honey dipped. Then, she replies, "I'd bet my life she told someone. I wonder if…"_

Their voices merge and bleed into one continuous question which plays on repeat like a skipping record:

Who is Hood? Who is Hood? Who is Hood? Who is Hood? Who is Hood? Who is Hood? Who is Hood? Who is Hood? Who is Hood? Who is Hood? Who is Hood? Who is Hood? Who is Hood?

In the house of cards, a teenage girl with short black hair and sapphire eyes runs away—down the hallway, into the last bedroom, and out of the window.

A younger Rukia chases after her, tripping and stumbling and reaching. To no avail. Then, just as Rukia falls out of the bedroom window, the house—the house of cards—bursts into flames.

All the while, the teenage girl with black hair and sapphire eyes screams:

_"Rukia!"_

"Rukia!" calls a man, his voice overtaking the screaming call in Rukia's mind.

An ice water deluge hits the top of her head, and Rukia comes to, sputtering and gasping, slamming into wakefulness.

"Good morning, little girl," coos a man in a striped hat, leaning down to Rukia's eye level, "How was your nap? Or, rather, _trip_—It's more like an acid trip than a nap, I suppose."

Coughing, Rukia's frantic eyes search her surroundings, desperately looking for clues: how long has she been here? Where is 'here?'

Nothing useful is forthcoming. She finds herself tied to a steel backed chair positioned in the middle of a small room with no windows. In direct opposition to the prison-cell-accommodations, a cashmere scarf is wrapped twice around her neck with inexplicable care.

Only a hanging light—a single dusty bulb throwing yellow light around unevenly—illuminates this bizarre hell.

"Do not be afraid," he says slowly, quietly, no sign mocking in his tone, "If you can stay calm, I will let you live."

Rukia flinches, trying to swallow. But her mouth is dry and her tongue feels awkward—too large somehow. Those thoughts catalyze others. She is tired and thirsty, so thirsty.

"Water," she breathes, "Water, please." The words taste foreign, flat and yet bulbous at the same time.

The man grins under his hat. "Sheesh, you're worse off than I thought," he retorts, "Look at my hand, Rukia."

And she does, discovering a half empty bottle of water held out toward her.

Rukia frowns. "But my hands… they're tied. I can't get it," she complains hoarsely, leaning over as far she can nevertheless.

The man's grin becomes a smirk, commiserating, "Yes, that's a real shame… and I had to waste the top half just to wake you up, too. Pity, really; truly unfortunate."

Rukia shakes her head violently, ignoring the corresponding nausea. She pulls against the bindings, her hands turning blue from the effort. The chair whines as she kicks away from its steel legs, trying to break free.

And the man in the hat watches without comment. He merely straightens to his full height and sighs.

Weak and emotionally drained, Rukia's rage manifests in bitter tears as her fit abates. "Why are you doing this to me? Who the fuck are you?" she cries, her head lulling to one side pathetically. Protecting herself from the unknown the only way she can, Rukia pulls her thin legs up onto the seat of the chair, tucking them under her chin.

"Hmm… good questions," replies the man in the hat, taking a sip of the water she is denied. "Ah, so refreshing," he teases, delaying the answer she craves more than relief from her thirst.

"Alright, alright," he says, noting the way Rukia's body begins to tremble under the combined weight of her confusion and drug withdrawal, "I am 'The King of Hearts." Rolling his shoulders blithely, he wonders aloud, "Now, you know who I am, but, Rukia, _who are you? _I must discover your _other_ name._"_

It seems an odd question. He seems to know who she is. And 'The King of Hearts' means absolutely nothing to her.

Muddled, vaguely irritated because her nose itches, she mutters, "Obliviously, I'm Rukia." Her sluggish brain picks up speed as elements of this nightmare begin to coalesce. "What do you mean my _other name_; you already know my name. How the fuck do you know my name, anyway?"

The King laughs heartily, bent double over the cane in his unoccupied hand. Sobering by degrees, he sighs wistfully, explaining, "I know everyone's name, both of their names. Still, that's neither here nor there. You must like your given name a great deal, Rukia, because you've been screaming it off and on for the last three days. So, if you will allow me to be a bit liberal with the facts, you told me your name many times."

"_Three days_?" she whispers, her eyes shut tight, horrified, "I've been tied to this chair for three days?"

Agile, with more grace than any man should possess, the King drops his cane and kneels before Rukia. Brushing her silk-fringe out of her face, he soothes, "No, no, Rukia. How could I keep you tied here for three full days? We wake you up to take you to the bathroom. You're not very accommodating, though, little girl. You peed on the floor twice and threw up twice as many times as that." As an afterthought, he expands, "Shades is an unhappy camper at the moment because he had to clean up after you."

As the King works the inky strands through his fingers, Rukia leans into his hand. Something human she knows is real.

She's too tired, abused and sick, to care 'what' or 'why' or 'how.' Feebly, she admits, "I don't remember that… I don't remember anything."

Tilting Rukia's chin up so he can examine her cloudy purple eyes, the King murmurs, "Dreams are strange, little girl. Sometimes, you cannot remember them when you wake up. Perhaps, it is better that way... no one should remember their nightmares." There can be no doubt this man speaks from experience; he remembers his nightmare too often.

Rukia smiles drunkenly, sleep reeling her in again, asking, "Why am I so tired? I feel like I've been sleeping forever."

The King strokes her lips gently, parting them with the tip of his finger, speaking lowly, "It's perfectly natural to feel that way, I assure you. Opiates do not induce sleep. More of a particularly vivid daydream. You weren't really sleeping." He lifts the bottle to her open mouth and pours cool water down her throat. "But we—_I_—have decided what to do with you, little girl. I think you're better off alive. So, you can sleep in a little while."

Before Rukia can act upon the absurd urge to thank him for not killing her, the swish of a door opening disrupts the moment—shatters the spell the King casts with his lingering touches and velvet words.

"Kisuke, I'm bringing her home," says a new voice from the doorway behind Rukia, "Hood was mine, and, now, Rukia will join 13 where she belongs."

This other man who comes to take Rukia home ambles over silently, sidling up next to the King and pushing him—in the most subtle manner possible—away from her. Rukia's savior begins untying the bindings around her wrists without pause.

"Excellent, Gentleman," chimes the King, "I knew you'd feel that way."

Humming noncommittally, the Gentleman lifts Rukia off the chair and into his arms in one fluid motion, thinking aloud, "If only Hood had… "

After a mournful pause, the Gentleman regroups. "Never mind, I will protect this child the only way I can. I know Blossom hasn't staked any claim; why, I have no idea. But, in any case, this girl comes with me." There is unyielding confidence in his voice, a certain beneficent unique to those the world will bend for.

Dark head lulling and hands growing cold, Rukia huddles into her savior's shirt, eying him wonderingly. Drinking in the sight of him, she instantly loves him. He's clear hazel eyes are warm, and the light bounces his long white hair like a golden halo—he is an unlikely angel saving babies in a city of the damned.

"Hello," he greets her with undue formality, "To you, I am Juushirou Ukitake. To everyone else, I am the Gentleman." He smiles ruefully, adding, "It is a flattering alias, of course, but I'm not sure I deserve it."

The King interjects, "Hey! I get to use your real name, too!" skipping to his side to peer down at Rukia.

Ludicrously, she feels like a newborn fawned over by grown men. As newborns are wont to do, Rukia yawns hugely.

Ignoring his sort-of-partner in crime, Juushirou the Gentleman, continues, "It is good thing we do not see much of the others, eh, Rukia? You and I and the rest of 13—we don't have much use for their lot." His kind eyes crinkle as he laughs good-naturedly.

"Humph," mutters the King, turning away and walking toward the door, apparently bored with the two them.

"Kisuke, wait. I need to know… did you? I mean, is it already done?" asks Juushirou quietly, his tone faintly melancholy.

Rukia's purple eyes fall shut; still, she tries to listen past the slumber-cotton in her ears.

"Why so sad, Ukitake? She's the 13th… the final mark. Your very own little Butterfly."

Her world goes blank—it's becoming a habit—and her brain goes fuzzy.

Still, Rukia knows the exact moment she leaves that awful room because 'drip drip' sound of life leaking away fades into silence.

_The only line she can remember goes something like this: "Dancing with life is dancing with death."

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...

Mare


	4. parallelism

**DARK VIEW

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Music: "The Howling" by Within Temptation

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_Oh, her future burns,_

_Burning bright_

_Like a pyre for god,_

_Burning bright,_

_As her past burns._

Heaven.

Here, Rukia sits on the floor, palms pressed against wall. She stares out through the west wall of this unfamiliar apartment. Not a wall, only glass—a window.

Night rages in the city, feeding it just what it needs. It's always been strange to Rukia—how darkness hides the people, but darkness strips the city.

Night shows it for what it really is.

Up high like this, in some flashy corner apartment in some posh skyscraper, Rukia can really see the city, can watch it writhe in the dark.

The smog catches the colors of a million neon signs and a billion florescent light bulbs, becoming something more, like a window with filthy glass, obscuring everything above it. The smog cages the city bellow, putting a ceiling on everyone's dreams, choking out heaven.

But in some ways, the smog—that filthy glass—saves them all. Falling from great heights is shitty way to die, so why reach any higher than the filthy glass ceiling? And it protects them from a higher power. They don't have to be good if nobody is watching.

No one here can bear the sight of god.

Rukia has always seen it this way, hated and loved the amorphous gray shroud over the city. And sitting here, watching it roil with all the colors of the cityscape, she wonders just how high up it goes, if the tallest skyscrapers punch holes through it. Maybe that's why it rains all the time—the smog is bleeding.

Then, looking down onto the lit-up streets, Rukia sees cars like ants and people like dots and remembers all the things she can't see from this distance like cigarette butts and broken bottles, plastic shopping bags and junky needles.

There is only one element missing. Like a colossal TV screen playing a horror film on mute.

Up here, it's silent, but Rukia imagines all the car alarms screaming and the heavy base beat of loud speakers and bicycle whistles wailing and drunk people throwing up and a prostitute singing in a night club.

She shivers. It's too quiet up here.

"Rukia. Welcome to 13," Juushirou the Gentleman greets her, "This is our home."

Startled, Rukia's focus changes, no longer seeing through the glass but looking at it. And a dim reflection meets her eyes. She can see him, his long white hair and uncommonly kind face. He is standing in the doorway of this room, watching her as she watches him.

These people—whoever they are—exhaust her. Rukia wasn't built for this, all this 'here and there and everywhere.'

Instead of turning around to face him, Rukia just removes her hands from the window-wall. Slowly. Half wishing she was on the other side of the glass.

"13?" she breathes, voice low and drifting from somewhere beyond confusion.

As far as Rukia can tell, Juushirou must have brought her here to this apartment. She woke up a few hours ago, facedown, sweaty and hyperventilating. And in the semi-dark, she had lied to herself. It was only a dream—a nightmare.

But truth will out.

Rukia found herself in this unfamiliar room. And, of course, she had looked for a door, maybe a person, unsure what was what or who was who, wanting out but terrified of what she might find outside. But there was no one to find and no door to escape through.

Rukia had woke alone in this locked room.

And, now, the man responsible—one of the men responsible—wants to _talk_.

Rukia glares at her reflection, realizing too late that she looks like shit, pale as paper, drawn and starved. She feels ugly and disgusting and weak.

Walking smoothly and without a sound, he meets her at the window. A faint smile curves his lips. "The 13 is your family, Rukia. You are one of us now."

The irrational desire to believe him—to believe in the angel she thought he was when he carried her away from the King and that horrible cell—nearly chokes Rukia. And something deeper, a restless yearning, draws her eyes away from the hideous creature reflected in the glass.

Staring at him, Rukia speaks words she knows but has never understood, "A family?"

Juushirou places a hand on her shoulder, nodding.

Then, Rukia flinches—not away from him. Only, the contact twinges like a brush burn. Scared, her eyes widen, gaze flickering to his hand suspiciously, wondering what the fuck just happened.

He just sighs, pointing at her shoulder and asking, "Does it hurt very much? I can give you something for the pain."

Uncomprehending, Rukia sifts through the conversation—'conversation' might be overstating things—looking for meaning. "Huh?" is the best she can come up with.

"Oh," Juushirou murmurs, "I suppose you haven't…" His voice trails off, his intent unreadable. Then, clearing his throat, he starts again and with more enthusiasm, "I have so much to tell you, Rukia. Isn't it strange that I'm not sure what to say?"

She considers that, finding that she does understand. Rukia has so many questions, but she doesn't know where to start either. At least, Rukia comforts herself, they are both on the same plane. A totally fucked, inverted plane, but whatever. It's nice to finally be _with_ someone.

Rukia pats the floor next to her, inviting him to sit down. Then she turns inward, preparing to listen, resolving not to speak.

Juushirou seats himself beside her, intent to order his thoughts before sharing them, ignoring the signs of impatience and annoyance creasing Rukia's brow. After a while, he starts to explain.

"I cannot begin at the true beginning. I cannot tell you everything. To tell the truth, I don't know everything. But I will tell you what you need to know. Or, at the very least, I'll tell you as much as you can handle right now," Juushirou says, sighing heavily.

He continues, "On the street 4 days ago, a man we call Shades found you. However, he thought you were someone else—a woman we called Hood. She has been missing for two years, and you… look like her. Uncannily like Hood."

Rukia nods stiffly. She remembers that part of this nightmare with nauseating clarity.

"Hood was—_is_—a member of 13. She maintains part of a secret the 13 protect with our lives. We have no families. We have no jobs or property of any kind. We have no names. On paper, the members of 13 do not even exist."

Rukia's eyes narrow unconsciously, having to bite her lip to keep from interrupting. Instead, she glowers at her thumb nail.

After a brief pause, Juushirou expands on the topic, his tone much more serious, "One might go so far as to call us 'dead.' You see, there are only thirteen members of 13, and the secret we keep is far too important to risk mingling in the outside world. We are known only to each other and a… select group of others in The Syndicate. We do not associate outside of The Syndicate. Not ever. There is too much at stake." Juushirou pauses again, letting Rukia digest, but he raises a hand to halt any comments.

He isn't finished. Not even close.

"Rukia," he says with genuine pity, looking out onto the cityscape with dead eyes, "I have so much—all the details and specifics—to teach you. But for now, I want you to think about this: there are things worth dying for—the people and places and ideas we cherish. To lose them would be to lose a reason to live, so we sacrifice ourselves to preserve them. I wish that was enough."

His lament trails off, bringing to the surface memories Rukia tried to so hard to drown. "But it isn't enough," she mutters, those despised memories burning the backs of her eyelids, all of them flames and ashes and ghosts.

Juushirou remains silent and thoughtful, resting his chin in his palm.

His gaze becomes too distant. And something about the look in his eyes makes Rukia feel too young.

It's strange-how much Juushirou can look like an angel, his face washed with an ageless sadness, the ruin of humanity.

"It is not enough merely to die. Anything worth dying for is worth killing for. That's what we, The Syndicate, do, Rukia. We die and kill to protect the most important thing—the future. Because there are people chipping away at our freedom, corrupting the institutions meant to protect the people. They consolidate their power everyday. And, knowing this, we cannot stand by and watch. This city is what we are dying and killing for," Juushirou the Gentleman whispers, teaching her and reminding himself, "Look down there and tell me, Rukia, what do you see?"

She doesn't need to look. The answer is plain.

"Hell."

_She is the phoenix.

* * *

_

Mare


	5. entendre

**DARK VIEW**

**

* * *

**

**I changed **"Dancer**" to **"Butterfly**."

Music: "Get Out Alive" by Three Days Grace.

* * *

_Dead legs dragging,_

_She'll cut them off_

_To save the whole,_

_Sad but not sorry,_

_Wishing for wings._

Standing in the bathroom, Rukia stares. And in the mirror above the sink, an alien stares back defiantly.

There is an ache—burn-scratch—between her shoulder blades, stinging where she pulled her sweatshirt over her head.

Her fingertips probe the skin on her neck under her grimy black hair. Her cool fingers feel warm—too warm—against a raised bump under her skin. Rukia pulls her fingers away, rubbing them together, watching them. They are foreign. And the bump underneath her skin is a cancerous tumor. Violating her.

She fights and beats the impulse scratch and dig the little violator out. To scream.

Juushirou the Gentleman told her the skin crawling feeling would fade. She would get used to it. He even showed her the raised rectangular bump on the back of his neck.

A microchip. He didn't say why—never told her what the chips were for. Only, one day, Juushirou said, he would tell her all about them.

"Just don't claw it out," he requested pleasantly.

Juushirou sat with her for hours, a silent vigil, watching night shrivel and cease outside the window-wall. Sometimes he spoke, telling her other things—secrets about the city bellow.

A city she thought she knew.

Mostly he told her about The Syndicate. Those nameless faces operating from the underground, swarming in the trash choked alleys on the wrong side of town, plotting and executing the Others. He told her why this must be done—how the Others lied, walking alongside the ignorant everyman, stealing power from their high-rise offices.

Sometimes Juurshirou didn't speak at all, ignoring Rukia's questions. How did the Syndicate know this? What were the Others doing with their stolen power? When had it all begun?

And there was one question she wouldn't ask. It smothered the room, coiling in the corners, killing the words.

Just who were they—who were the Others?

"The ends justify the means," Juushirou said finally, "In one way or another, you'll die if you deny this. Your name is Butterfly. Forget Rukia—she's dead." There wasn't doubt or remorse in any of his laugh lines.

She perceived him differently in that moment. He was lethal and infectious, and Rukia was exposed to the sickness.

Contaminated.

Hungry with his kind of fever. Jealous of his daring. High on his conviction.

Drawn into the black and white and red glamor of his world.

He blew up her mind.

Setting her up in the line of fire, poised to abandon everything she was.

So now, Rukia, standing naked in the bathroom, wishes she could soak in bleach, knowing deep down that it wouldn't make a difference. She will scour the salty residue from her skin, the scent of disuse clinging to her long hair. She will wash away the evidence of her incontinence and brush the taste of vomit out from between her teeth.

Soon, Rukia will be raw as the day she was born. But, never clean.

The ropes which bound her to that chair with the King left her stained with bruises deeper than flesh. And the aftertaste of insanity will linger like the inescapable silhouette of tall buildings always throwing shadows on her face.

The ropes and shadows bind her still. Everything she is—weak, helpless, afraid, alone.

There is nowhere to run and no way to stay. Something has to give.

The mood is shifting, transforming her, promising relief on the other side of fear.

_She_ must change. Quickly.

Rukia nods slowly, and the alien in the mirror smiles. She turns away toward the shower speculatively, the impulse to plot catching.

To survive, she'd need to die, and so, cocooned in spiraling steam, she drowns herself, the blistering hot water burning her alive. And the chip heats up will metal does, burning her from the inside too.

When she emerges, Rukia leaves her past shivering in the shower. She stifles grief but feels no regret.

Finding a fluffy towel in the cabinet above the toilet, she dries off, reveling. She wriggles her toes, enjoying the frenetic feeling bubbling under her skin. Her heart pumps adrenaline through her veins, sharpening the edge of the marble counter against her back and lifting the hair on her arms and legs. And she enjoys that, too.

In the vanity cabinet, Rukia rummages for a toothbrush, not really caring if it belongs to someone else. She's desperate.

Breathing with new lungs, Rukia walks back to her room, seeing it with new eyes. Instead of vague shapes in the semi-dark, the shapes register. Meaning and muted color.

Everything is monochromatically white which she finds absurdly funny. A group of vigilantes in a white house.

Facing the window wall, the low bed is set on a geometric platform. It strikes the eye like cut stone, but she knows it isn't. Tucked in around the mattress, the sheets and counterpane mimic the square scheme. The black leather headboard hangs directly on the wall, floating.

Built in shelves of Balsa wood frame the furniture. These shelves are bare, sterile. Off to the side, an unremarkable white desk on chrome legs stands beside a built in armoire, lacquered in a slightly darker finish. Between them, the bedroom door is ajar.

On the opposite wall, a plasma screen hangs, flanked by a mirror and an abstract painting; a feathery black "V"on a white background.

Like wings.

The rug on the floor offers the only color. Red, she thinks. But there isn't enough light to tell which shade of red.

Her discarded clothes are nowhere to be seen; only her boots remain. Instead, a black turtleneck and vinyl pencil skirt are laid out on the bed, waiting for her to wear them.

Rukia angles a note pined to the shirt toward the window, the paper barely illuminated by city lights. It reads, _"Something I had laying around._" Privately, she doubts that.

Scrutinizing the ensemble, Rukia decides it isn't quite right, not enough. Glancing over at the desk in the corner, she grabs her new clothes. In the drawers, she finds all the usual things, rooting around for a pair of scissors.

20 minutes and several failed attempts later, Rukia scrutinizes her image in the mirror, the dim truth of how much she has changed. She does not blush.

Shorn ink strands of her hair pool around her feet. And her head—like her feet—feels lighter. Like she has wings.

Rukia wonders if she's finally gone mad, her hands shaking as she replaces the scissors.

Noises elsewhere—the opening of a door, shuffling feet, a muffed groan—intrude upon the apoplectic silence.

Before she can consider it further, a lean man, spiky hair and deep scowl, pokes his head into her room. Rukia watches surprise and confusion register on his face reflected in her mirror.

"… Um," he flounders, deciding to be angry, "Who the hell are you?"

Rukia takes a deep breath, steeling herself, stealing the cool certainty Juushirou exudes. She pauses.

Then, Rukia pivots slowly, feeling the fabric pull against the microchip in her neck, the air brush against her thighs where she cut off the vinyl, the goose bumps on her arms where she cut off the sleeves.

Rukia studies this intruder—not quite a man; he is younger than Juushirou, but older than her—wondering if his hair stands up that way on it's own.

He stands in the doorway, arms folded, everything about his frown demanding an answer.

Oh, she has names. Two names. One by which to die and one by which to kill.

Rukia smirks hard, prolonging the moment, savoring it. "I'm the Butterfly," she says, "Who the fuck are you?"

_Desperate to fly because walking here was fatal._

* * *

**I made one significant change to this chapter. I'm sorry I posted prematurely. I'll try to avoid that in the future.

Mare


End file.
